To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Nineteen: Vacation on the German Sea

       Carl strode into the Great Room. "Rebecca!" he cried.

       "In here!"

       He was at the door of her study in three strides, bursting into the room and announcing: "We're going on vacation next week. I don't know if you need one," he facetiously queried, "but I do, and I want to go to the seashore."

       "But, how can we go without taking along guards and helpers?"

       "That's why we need a vacation. Our whole world and our roles in it have changed, and we've barely thought about what's happened to us. It's time we did."

       "Where can we go? There aren't any resorts."

       Carl was expansive. "If Caesar Tiberius can vacation in Capri, so can we."

       Her startled look caused him to quickly backpedal. "I'm kidding. But we can vacation on the German Sea now that that territory is under our control.

       "Have the mansion staff plan for food and cooking needs, I'll have Morius arrange transportation, hospital tents for sleeping, and a security escort."

       Rebecca regained her enthusiasm. "Yesss! Holiday! Pray for good weather."

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       Several times during that week the hassles of getting ready for the move almost made them change their minds, but finally August 10 arrived and they were off to the coast.

       Rebecca looked back at the train of people that formed after they had crossed the Trent. "Carl, look at what's happened to us. Remember when we drove off, just the two of us to stay in bed and breakfasts?"

       He grimaced, remembering all too vividly. "We could do the same today, just the two of us, but brigands probably would rob or kill us before we reached the coast. And I shudder to think what would happen if we camped by ourselves." He gave a fake shudder, though he was very serious. Their society had fundamentally changed. The question was how they should change.

       She looked at the sky. It was already hot and clear. "We may have good weather after all." How long it would last was anybody's guess.

       Ten carts carried tents for the entourage of cooks, helpers, and guards. They would hunt or fish for fresh food, but they carried food in case the hunters were unlucky. They would not sponge off peasants and petty chieftains.

       The second day they reached what the Romans called Germanicus Mare, the German Sea north of the channel. It was a beautiful sight as they made their way out of the wolds that months before had echoed with the sounds of battle when Morius' cavalry hit the Volodion Belgae from behind.

       Most of the staff and some of the soldiers had never seen such a large body of water, they lived and died within a few miles of their birthplace. Even as they set up camp workers paused frequently to stare at the waves crashing on the shoreline. The Trent was the largest body of water they had seen.

       Tents were placed near a stream wending its way out of the wolds toward the sea. Morius had gone ahead to pick it out. It was a beautiful spot, above the sand but near enough to hear the waves crash on a nearby outcropping even while the soft brush of water across sand offered counterpoint.

       "It's hard to realize,' Carl confided to Rebecca, "but in two thousand years a great deal of this beach will be permanently covered by the sea." He gave her a wry look. "Enjoy it while you can!"

       "Really, will this be covered?"

       "Most likely. Either the land will sink or the ocean will rise. In some cases, the waves will probably crash against the foot of those cliffs," and he pointed far north to cliffs that were a hundred yards from the water.

       It felt odd not to be responsible for setting up any part of the camp. There were staff and soldiers to do that, and Carl had to keep from meddling.

       Rebecca commented on the situation. "I once said I didn't think I had the attitude to be 'an aristocrat.'" She used both hands to put quotation marks around the phrase. "Do you remember?"

       "Do I? You accused me of being one." He pulled her close. "That's why I wanted a vacation. We've become aristocrats . . ."

       "After a fashion," she interjected.

       "More than 'after a fashion.' We've become rulers. And I don't know how to act. Do you?"

       "Me? I'm the one who raised the question earlier, or is it later." And a wave of her hand dismissed the issue of time. "Anyway, I didn't know how to become one then, and I certainly don't know now."

       "Well, while we relax, let's figure out how we should rule instead of using the ad hoc methods we've employed so far. "Teutius, Vasli, and Morius are 'vacationing' with us so that they can be our cultural barometers."

       "Where's a woman? Who'll help me?"

       "Somehow, I thought you'd raise that question. I invited Bottelicia, mother of the Cornovii king. He wouldn't allow his wife to attend, but he will send his mother with a complement of soldiers for her protection. I don't think he totally trusts us, yet."

       Rebecca peered at Carl from the crook of his arm. He had given this vacation a lot of thought. "I hope she speaks Gaelic. I'm tired of learning all these languages."

       "She does."

       By noon the camp was ready and hunters had returned with wild boar and venison. Soon the aromas from the huge barbecue pit filled the air, sharpening hunger. Everyone would eat well that night.

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       Since Nottingham had conquered the Volodion Belgae, their territory had become a safe haven for the Coritani, so Morius established a perfunctory perimeter, much as he would have done in Coritani territory, though each warrior was admonished to stay alert and maintain discipline while on duty. Still, it was a slipshod security because of the coming and going of so many "civilians" or staff people who freely moved about the area. Carl noted the situation but shrugged it off.

       The queen mother had arrived the second day without fanfare. She was a dumpy woman, with black hair turning grey. She once had been a beauty, but the vagaries of time and responsibilities had taken their toll. She was a walking contradiction for she carried herself as a queen should but with a warm, inviting look in her face. In her fifties, she was fairly old for the time.

       Rebecca met with her the evening of her arrival and started to curtsey when Bottelicia with surprisingly strong hands caught her by the shoulders.

       "Queen Rebecca, King Carl of the Long Reach has told me why I am here, so please, let me begin our lessons. I am the one who should curtsey to you, not you to me. You are queen, I am queen mother of another tribe. All women curtsey to queens, not the other way round."

       It took a confident woman to begin her lessons so abruptly, a trait Rebecca admired in her tutor. She had learned lesson number one and hoped the others would be as painless.

       The third day on the site, Carl and Rebecca met with all four of their "tutors." Teutius spoke first, to be followed by Vashi and Morius. Bottelicia would comment as needed, but most of her comments would be directed specifically and privately to Rebecca. All spoke candidly.

       Carl and Rebecca sat, listened, and became bewildered with each passing moment as each informant iterated and reiterated the basis of tribal and class society as they understood it. Teutius had observed it from the viewpoint of religious leadership, Vashi as spokesman for Coritani leaders without, however, being a leader himself, while Morius spoke with the experience of a military man who had served several leaders in different tribes. Of the four, only the queen mother spoke with the experience of one who shared in a small measure the kingship of a rival though friendly tribe. It was, without doubt, the most unusual group of "tutors" any of them would ever see.

       Their views at first seemed contradictory until it became clear that hereditary leadership was paramount. The rule of primogeniture could easily be superseded by a younger son who was a greater warrior than the elder, and even hereditary rights could be overcome by another warrior who was more capable of leading the tribe, though usually that was a temporary situation, with the outsider relegated to a subordinate role as soon as the battle was won. In any case, power was the purpose of leadership. The strongest, most courageous, and astute member of the tribe, provided he or she had the right kinship relationship, would be chosen leader. Male children naturally became ri or even king, if they controlled more than one tribe. But he—seldom she, unless she had a strong consort—must be a warrior capable of inspiring other tribal leaders to follow.

       How were the king and queen to act?

       Again, the comments were mixed though they eventually resulted in a consensus—they were to act ruthlessly. Obedience of subjects required fear. King and baron or tribal leader might be friends and support each other, but each also had self interests, including family and clan. Those interests often took precedence. The peasants were beyond the pale. They wanted only security and freedom to live their hard scrabble lives, to work, eat, procreate, and celebrate gods and goddesses at appropriate festivals. They gave the king unstinting loyalty, whether or not they wanted to. It was their duty. But the king had his responsibilities as well, and they included protecting his people from other tribes.

       All were aware of changes occurring on the continent under Roman rule. The four estates (Carl noticed there was no "estate" of the press) were composed of king or ri, nobles or large landowners, religious leaders, often Druidic, and an emerging class of influential traders, and all seemed interested in nothing more than retaining their prerogatives even if it required subservience to the Romans. In fact, many Gallic leaders aspired to Roman leadership and would, in the future, aspire to senatorial positions in Rome.

       Privately, Bottelicia explained to Rebecca that her primary function was to produce offspring, preferably a son. She was to support her husband unless he was weak and threatened the tribe by ceding power to another tribe or foreign power.

       "I know you are not Coritani," she said, "so their practices may seem strange, yet the Coritani have become your people through conquest, as have the Volodion Belgae, so they now are your people, and you are responsible for them."

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       Bottelicia had never seen the ocean, so the next day she and Rebecca waded into the water to their knees. The tug of the outgoing tide frightened the older woman, but she hid her fear, a fear she confided to Rebecca that night.

       Rebecca responded. "I could tell by your grip on my arm that you were afraid, but it did not show in your face."

       Bottelicia smiled. "Consider this another lesson." She was captivated by the tall redhead whose skill with a bow already was known among the tribes. "Never let 'others' know of your fear, even in the face of death."

       The "others," Rebecca surmised, was her way of identifying anybody lower than the king.

       Bottelicia left the next day. Her stamina no longer was what it once had been, but Rebecca quietly embraced and thanked her for her help. A tearful farewell showed a mutual friendship, perhaps even a budding mother-daughter relationship, something Rebecca had never expected in such a barbarian society. She wondered what the queen mother's relationship was with her daughter-in-law, the queen of the Coritani. Was her wisdom ignored or treasured by the queen?

       As soon as the Cornovii guard disappeared toward the south, Carl grabbed Rebecca by the arm. "If we're going to vacation, the least we can do is get in a little swimming. You can keep on your panties and bra, I'll wear my shorts. We'll go north to the other side of that area jutting into the water. We can sun bathe and swim to our heart's content."

       "Won't it be unseemly for the queen and king to appear so . . . so naked?"

       "My men have seen me with less on than my shorts. You can wear that light shift with the shoulders over your underclothes—that should protect your modesty, and it won't be too heavy to swim in. Though I wouldn't use it, he said to himself.

       "Anyway, I'll have Morius keep the area free of gawkers. You can swim, can't you?" It had never come up before.

       "Of course—even in this ocean, though the beach at Brighton was better."

       "So was the entertainment."

       She laughed. "Yes, that too."

       When they reached the beach, they divested themselves of their clothes, stripping to their underwear, though Rebecca immediately donned her shift. Carl's gun belt and knife were carefully wrapped in a towel to keep sand from entering the pistol's chamber. He was seldom far from its comforting power.

       He walked to the water's edge, keeping an eye out for rocks under the surface, then he yelled, "Last one in's a monkey's uncle . . .or aunt!" and dashed for the water, jumping over the small waves near shore and diving into the first breaking waves out about twenty feet. He surfaced and swam a little farther, then gingerly felt for the bottom. He could stand and keep his shoulders above water.

       Rebecca walked up the beach, seeking courage to take the plunge.

       It didn't help that Carl yelled: "Holy smokes, this's cold!" just as she made a dash for the water. He was right. It's cold! she silently gasped as she dove beneath a wave.

       More important, as she swam from shore she felt a strong undertow inexorably pulling her into the sea and trying to drag her under the water. She panicked. "Carl, help! I'm being pulled under!" She struggled to keep her head above water.

       He was south of the undertow, but he now could see the difference in color of the water and its direction.

       He started to swim toward her, then turned to swim alongside her, slowing only to yell. "Don't fight it. Go with the flow and swim parallel with the beach, toward me. I'll be right here, swimming with you. But don't try to swim to shore! And stay on the surface, don't let your legs drop into the undertow."

       Rebecca, who had turned toward the beach and was flailing away, quickly heeded his advice and turned to swim toward him, though she continued to be carried into deeper water where the waves were larger. Her relaxed, powerful strokes, carried her south until, a couple hundred feet off shore she escaped the current, or it just died out.

       Carl had been racing to keep up with her, fighting through the waves. He arrived shortly after she cleared the undertow.

       He had a worried look in his eyes. They both were tired and far from shore, and the waves were heavy.

       "Take off that shift," he said.

       "What?"

       "Take it off. I'll make it into a life preserver to keep you afloat."

       With difficulty they treaded water while he helped pull it over her head, then he quickly tied the ends to keep air from escaping. He blew into the makeshift life preserver and tied that opening with a square knot fearing he would need to inflate it several times before they reached shore, though the wet, tight cloth held air well.

       He thrust the shift toward her and lifted her up so her arms were completely over the inflated preserver with her breasts resting on top, her face just above water. Now she could paddle while resting on the preserver.

       She queried him. "Aren't you tired? I'm exhausted."

       He was, too, but he slowly swam beside her. "I wasn't in the rip tide, remember?"

       Which was true, but he had had to swim hard against the waves to reach Rebecca when she cleared the undertow, and he hadn't been swimming since their arrival in Britannia. Even in the rescue of Raphael he probably didn't take two strokes. Now he was exhausted, the ankle hurt like sin, and he feared he might cramp.

       It seemed like an eternity before they reached shore, but the beach gently sloped into the sea. They staggered through fifty feet of surf before collapsing on the sand, lying with their feet in the lapping waves.

       It took several minutes before Carl weakly turned to his straggly-haired queen consort. "You can't say we don't have exciting vacations."

       "Exciting? We almost ended our royal careers."

       They slowly staggered up the beach to the blanket and towels, still too exhausted to return to camp.

       He untied her gown. It had served them well. Lying in her lingerie, she was somewhat exposed on the sand, but it no longer bothered her. They had been in the water a long time, and both of them were shivering with the cold. The sun was warm.

       "What do you think about being queen?" They might as well talk while recovering.

       "I'm no more excited than you are with being king, but, given the option of not being one, I'll opt for queen."

       Her giggle showed she was getting her strength and humor back, and it reminded him of another day and time.

       She sobered. "Bottelicia didn't intend it, I think, but she showed me that being a king in this century is better than being one in the twenty-first century. I complained about the differences among the classes then, but that's nothing compared with today. If we were in the peasant class we would never get out of it."

       Then she hit upon a hard truth. "Unless, of course, you successfully usurp the existing king, as you did."

       "We did."

       He rolled toward her, looked toward camp, and pulled her close. She started and flinched at the idea of making love in the open.

       He pulled back, but just a little. "Don't worry, I don't have the strength right now."

       It was her turn to pull back. "Since when?"

       He ignored her jibe. "I just want to hold you. I've not only got a beautiful wife, who's a great nurse and archer, she's also insightful. What more can a king ask for?"

       She relaxed in his embrace, their flesh cold against each other until they began exchanging the heat of their bodies. The tent would be for private affairs.

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       They lay in the sand a long time, soaking up the sun and their mutual warmth. Suddenly, Rebecca sat upright. She had very good hearing.

       Slightly disoriented, not knowing from which way the sound was coming, she only reluctantly turned toward the water to see a boat with sail and vigorously paddling oarsmen driving south in the sea.

       "Carl! Look!"

       Her movement had awakened him from a light doze, and he heard the sound of oars beating the sea even as she spoke. The boat had shields on the side.

       He sat up to look. "It can't be! It looks like Vikings." The ship looked like pictures he had seen, but he didn't pause to consider the impossibility.

       Their movements attracted the attention of the sea warriors, and they furled their single sail and turned toward shore.

       "Race to camp and warn Morius. We'll need all of the men. I'll follow, but I may need to hold them off before he arrives. We want to fight them this side of that outcropping." He was physically exhausted, but his tactical intelligence was alert.

       She quickly slipped into her clothes and shoes and raced toward the outcropping of stone that hid the camp from the sea warriors while, at the same time, hiding the sea warriors from camp guards. They could land and establish themselves before Morius and the men knew they were there.

       Her first few steps were labored. She still was not fully recovered from the battle with the sea, now she had to summon strength to warn the camp.

       Carl slipped into his clothes and shoes, keeping an eye on the foreign ship and on Rebecca. She stumbled once, and fell heavily, but she immediately got up and reached the outcropping. Now, it was his turn.

       He strapped on the gun belt then turned and ran, struggling through the loose sand to the grassy area that met the beach, hoping the warriors would follow him rather than Rebecca. He could climb into the hill and then crossover to the camp, if necessary—or, if I make it!

       A quick look behind showed the vessel was charging toward the beach with oars thrashing the water. But the sea was fairly shallow in this area, as he had found. The boat beached before it reached shore.

       He had reached the grass and was climbing into the hill when he heard the shouts of men leaping into the water to chase him down. Some of them, loaded as they were with heavy jackets, axes, and round shields sank until they hit bottom. They surfaced with few fighting implements.

       Suddenly his exhaustion and the pain of his shin hit full force. He gasped for breath and fought the waves of inertia that hit his legs. He half crawled, half scrambled up the hillside where he was terribly exposed to the first warriors charging through the water and across the beach. One of them appeared to be their leader, a huge man with round helmet with pointed top, shield, and axe. He appeared quite capable of throwing the axe over some distance.

       Carl crouched behind a small sapling and rested the barrel of the pistol in the crotch of a branch. He was breathing heavily and couldn't hold the pistol steady with his hand alone.

       The giant of a warrior charged up the hillside then made a fundamental error. He paused and raised his axe to throw it the remaining thirty feet. His reward for offering a stationary target was a small hole in his heavy covering with blood from his chest spurting all over it. His face showed astonishment before a certain blankness hit his eyes. He staggered, dropped the axe, and stepped back before tumbling backward down the slope. Carl didn't pause to enjoy his handiwork but staggered farther up the hill.

       Three other warriors charged up hill to finish the work of their chieftain, only to find several Coritani warriors standing just above Carl with bow and arrow, and the steel-tipped arrows sliced into the heavy covering of the seafarers, causing grievous wounds to all and death to one. The two survivors quickly retreated under the onslaught of arrows, racing down the hill faster than they had raced up it, despite their wounds.

       The sea warriors milled about, seeking opponents to attack, when the Nottingham guards swarmed over the outcropping. Carl could see them from where he was, and he noticed that Rebecca took the lead, wielding her bow like a Greek Diana, dropping arrow after arrow into the milling warriors. On the beach the sea bandits charged the Coritani, only to be driven back by a furious barrage of arrows from archers commanded by Morius, who handled them as though he were directing an orchestra.

       After devastating losses, four boat warriors approached the hillside where Carl and the three archers still were watching the fray. They were without weapons except for shields. Finally realizing what they were attempting to do, Carl yelled to his own men to allow the boat people to retrieve their dead. It'll be a long sail back to wherever they come from, he thought, but they would take an indelible lesson with them. The Britons are a fierce enemy, and it will require many more men to subdue them.

       It was a somber group carrying their chief on their shields, and they had great difficulty freeing the boat from the sand and then turning it against a stiffening breeze and mounting waves, but before long they were slowly rowing north along the coast, perhaps to the land of the Parisi.

       Under normal circumstances, Carl would have directed his men to follow along the coast, keeping the boat in sight until it headed across the sea, but he was too tired, and there were too few men to undertake scouting.

       He thanked Morius for his quick response, especially for the archers who gave him cover.

       "I had them on guard duty," he replied, "but I almost pulled in them because the area was so peaceful."

       "Yes, well," a favorite phrase of Carl's, "we learned it's never a good idea to relax security." He started away, then returned. "Do you know who they were?"

       "No, I've never seen such warriors before. I'll ask the Volodion Belgae."

       "No, no need. It was just a matter of curiosity."

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       Camp was somber, and under much tighter perimeter control that night. They had been very fortunate. If Carl and Rebecca had not been swimming north of camp no one would have seen the marauders until it was too late. The camp would have been attacked directly from the sea.

       As they lay in bed, he queried Rebecca about her role in the counterattack. "Where did you get the strength to lead the attack?" he asked, knowing how difficult it had been for him to climb the hillside.

       "I guess my adrenalin was pumping since I knew you were behind me and our only hope of saving you was to charge as quickly as possible. Besides," she ran her finger down the side of his jaw, deliberately entangling it in the beard, "I'm the best archer among the guards. I couldn't stay behind while they faced the enemy."

       "But you probably killed men."

       "Yes, probably. But I was doing it to save you. And I didn't stop to think about it."

       "It looks as though Bottelicia told you to lead the army when you can."

       "No, but she did say I shouldn't show fear to the Coritani. I could show fear to you," she said, "as I did in the undertow, but not to the men, even in the face of death. I didn't think I'd have to act on her words so quickly."

       "You know," Carl said, "historians claim Vikings, including the Danes, didn't attack England until many centuries from now. I would like to offer a disclaimer." He voice trailed off, and he mumbled that he was thankful she had led the troops, then he fell asleep.

       She never knew how close she came to losing him in the waters and on the hillside. Total exhaustion was not new to Carl. It had been a part of Special Forces training and that of his commandos, but this feeling was deep boned. It would take several days to fully recover, and it made him highly conscious of his humanity.